‘Oh? Why would she do that? She can’t stand the old witch.’ Martin scratched his head. ‘Sometimes, I find your Alice a bit difficult to work out, because she’s always changing her mind. Saying that, though, I have to admit she’s clever. There must be a damned good reason for her to go and see your mother.’
Nellie inhaled deeply. ‘Well, I think the mind-changing’s part of her otherness. She said that with Muth being over seventy, we should let her back into our lives, but on our terms. I thought I was the only one who worried about our mother being so old and on her own . . .’
Martin shook his head. ‘Well, I reckon you should slow down and think. There’s enough of us to stand up to her if she kicks off – when she kicks off. She’s just a little old . . . battleaxe. I’ve never met anybody like her, mean-spirited old cow.’
Nellie’s spine straightened itself. ‘I don’t want to let her near Simon and Keith.’ The grandmother’s knuckles whitened as she made firmer her grip on the pram’s handle. ‘She’s like a disease – or a weapon. It’ll be world war all over again, right down to sirens and gas masks. Our Alice and Muth are a dangerous . . . what’s that word? Combination – like fire and brimstone, or whatever they call that stuff.’
‘There’ll be no war on my watch.’ Martin smiled at his wife. ‘Nellie, I’m back. The first thing I did was get rid of her. When I found out that we were granddad and grandma, I knew I’d had enough. If she’d been halfway decent, it would have looked terrible, me throwing out a poor old woman. But everybody along this road congratulated me.’ He waved a hand towards the door. ‘We’ll manage.’
‘I hope so, love.’
He grinned again. ‘Listen, Nell. Remember last August when America dropped atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?’
She nodded. ‘Terrible, that was.’
‘Your Alice is the human version of those weapons. I know she’s the size of two penn’orth of chips, but she has some special power, as you know only too well. She’s the one who can overcome your mother. Alice has a way of making things happen, and Marie has confidence in herself, too.’
‘But I haven’t any of that, have I?’
Martin chuckled. ‘You’re getting there. These two kiddies are helping you along. Look at you – bright eyes, shiny hair, and nearly a stone lost. I’m proud of you, girl.’
The ‘girl’, more than fifty-three years of age, simpered. She knew she looked well, knew she was stronger and happier than she’d been for ages, years that had been stolen by her mother. ‘I want Claire and Janet and their husbands and babies kept out of it. We’ll go to the meeting and I’ll say then it’s only the two of us. Just as well, because I might speak my mind at long last. And it’s not before time – I’m the oldest.’
‘Meeting?’
‘Up at Alice’s tonight. Just us, no Claire, no Janet, because I haven’t told them about it, and I’m not going to. Marie and Nigel will be back in time for Olga and Peter’s reception on Saturday – I suppose Alice will talk to them then. All right?’
‘I don’t know,’ Martin said quietly. He tried another tack. ‘You’ve got me, two daughters, two strapping sons-in-law and two babies. Are you better now?’
Nellie knew she had no choice. ‘I suppose so,’ she agreed reluctantly. After all, Alice and Marie were both cleverer than she was, weren’t they? She would do her best. Nobody could do better than their best.
‘We’ll be fine, sweetheart.’
‘Muth won’t be fine if she comes near these two, because I’ll crack her one across the gob,’ was Nellie’s reply.
They each picked up a baby and a bottle. Where babies were concerned, food mattered most.
Alice marched up to the front door of the ugly, grey house. She shivered. She had to be nice; no matter what, she would be nice.
‘She won’t remember anything about your last visit,’ said Callum.
‘Are you still hanging around like a bad smell in the public lavs?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Stay out of it,’ she snapped. If this was pregnancy, it didn’t suit her one bit. What with sickness in the mornings, a temper that was unpredictable, a compulsion to eat fruit and a strong dislike for meat, she was falling to bits like most of the bombed houses down Bootle way. ‘Don’t talk to me, don’t move anything, and leave her alone. This is your last warning. And I’ve got a headache.’ A cool breeze stroked her forehead, and the pain was gone. Oh yes, Uncle Callum was one clever ghost. An angel? One of these days he’d disappear up his own halo, taking his harp with him. Alice pressed the doorbell and rapped on the door. Perhaps Muth was out shopping – wishful thinking.
It opened after a few seconds. Elsie’s jaw dropped. ‘Hello,’ she said sarcastically, ‘what brings you here?’ She looked her daughter up and down.
‘A bus and my feet brought me,’ was the reply.
‘And how did you know where to find me?’
‘A friend told me she’d seen you coming out of here. I just wondered if you were all right.’ Mr Magic had kept his word, then; Muth clearly had no memory of her previous encounter with her youngest daughter.
‘Come in.’
The doorway widened.
This place was exactly as Alice remembered it, except for new wallpaper and the smell of paint. ‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘Is the rent OK?’
‘I don’t pay rent, because I’m the caretaker. I feed just me, and the gas and electric meters – they take pennies. So I do very well, thanks to my bit of savings. A woman my age doesn’t eat much.’
Alice sat where she had placed herself on the earlier occasion, on one of two dining chairs at a small table in the bay window. She waited while Muth made a pot of tea. With her speech well rehearsed and lodged at the front of her mind, she was managing to squash her nerves. Well, she was nearly managing.
Mother and daughter sat opposite each other drinking the cup that cheers, though neither found anything to smile about. ‘I’ve come to invite you to ours for Sunday dinner,’ Alice said. ‘Not this Sunday coming – the one after.’ Following the reception on Saturday, Dan would be tired, so Muth’s visit needed to be postponed for a week. ‘We eat at about half past two. Will you come?’
Elsie’s cup clattered on to its saucer. ‘You what?’
Unfazed, the younger woman continued. ‘Dinner with me and Dan a week on Sunday.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re my mother, and because none of us gets any younger.’
‘We don’t get on, you and me,’ Elsie said.
‘Leave the past where it belongs, Muth; bury it in yesterday’s bad news.’
‘I will if you will,’ was Elsie’s answer after a long pause.
‘I already have. I know you haven’t had an easy life, with seven kids and then Dad dying young. What’s the point of bearing grudges?’
Muth smiled, though her eyes remained chilled. ‘I’ll be there.’
Alice shivered. This woman might as well be a fridge. Wondering obliquely whether Nellie’s sons-in-law might be able to find a use for Elsie’s coldness in the shop’s kitchen, the visitor picked up a rich tea biscuit.
Elsie’s eyes narrowed. ‘You look different. Have you been ill?’
‘No. I’m all right.’
‘You’re pale.’
Alice shrugged.
‘How’s our Nellie?’
‘OK. Thinner. Happier, too, because Martin’s back.’ She would be seeing Nellie and Martin tonight, but she wasn’t going to tell Muth that.
‘And Marie?’
‘In Jersey. She’ll be back soon.’
The older woman sniffed. ‘It must be nice to have the money for gadding about on holiday.’
‘They’re not on holiday, Muth; they’re doing something for Chester Zoo.’
A second sharp inhalation was followed by, ‘Well, I suppose with her being barren, the animals are a substitute.’
Alice drained her cup. Muth’s tongue remained as sharp as a rapier. ‘Our Marie is the kindest,
sweetest woman on the planet, and our Nellie’s wonderful. I want you to start thinking before you open your gob, Mother. I can’t and won’t speak for my sisters, but I’m asking you to come back into my life, not theirs. If they drop in while you’re at my house, be nice.’
Whenever Alice awarded her the title ‘Mother’, Elsie knew it was a warning. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she announced carefully.
‘Good.’ The daughter rose to her feet and gazed at the woman who had birthed her. ‘And be polite to Dan. He’s not in the best of health after two strokes.’
Elsie held back a smile. The sooner Alice’s cripple died, the sooner she’d be free to find somebody who could walk and work.
The air round Alice’s face moved. Callum was here.
‘I’m thought-streaming,’ he whispered.
Elsie’s unspoken words walked through Alice’s mind. ‘I love him, Mother,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘Do you, now?’
‘It’s in your eyes. Be nice to my Dan.’
‘I will.’ She followed her daughter to the door. ‘See you a week on Sunday, then.’
‘Yes,’ Alice replied. ‘And keep that sharp tongue still when you get there.’ She left, accepted Harry’s offer of another lift, and began the journey to Marie’s, where she would be checking on preparations for the reception which would take place this weekend.
‘Thank you,’ she said when they reached her sister’s house. He had managed to keep his hands to himself, and for that fact she felt half relieved and half disappointed. She left the car and waved off the man who confused her. After finishing at Marie’s, she had a bone or three to pick with Mr Harry Thompson, pigeon fancier, and it would have been rude to attack him in his own car. But something had to be done, and she was the only one who seemed prepared to tackle it. She walked up Marie’s path and into the house via the rear door. Tommy had been hard at work.
Having progressed from two incisors in the lower jaw to total toothlessness, he had now become Toothy Tommy. The reason for the newest name hit any visitor immediately, because Tommy didn’t own teeth – they owned him. Brilliant white and large, they seemed to guide him along like headlights on a vehicle navigating a dark road. He smiled a great deal, probably because he hadn’t a great deal of choice, since the dentures seemed unnecessarily huge.
Alice stopped staring at him; staring was rude. She remembered the bright, white teeth in her dream. ‘You’ve done well,’ she managed, trying hard not to laugh.
‘I’ve got new teeth,’ he announced unnecessarily. ‘They were fitted specially, just last week.’
‘Er . . . yes, very nice,’ was her careful answer. Did he think the falsies had helped in his labours? ‘I see you borrowed two trestle tables.’
‘From the Methodist hall. For heathens, they seem quite friendly folk.’
At last, she allowed herself to release a giggle. ‘They’re not heathens, Tommy. They’re Christians like us.’
‘Are they?’
‘Yes. They just dress plain and speak plain.’
‘Right.’ The teeth clattered together when he reached the end of the word.
‘And the fairy lights look nice. When are Marie and Nigel back?’
‘Tonight. Special arrangements had to be made, because they’re bringing two more animals. I asked what they are, but they said I should wait and see. Their mammy died. So we’ve the whole rigmarole starting over again.’
‘Good.’
‘That’s what I said, so. Did you know Larry has a friend?’
‘Not another bloody llama, Tommy.’
‘Ah no; it’s Nelson. So I took them both to the nursing home last Sunday when Nelson wasn’t needed, and we brought out all the old dears in wheelchairs. He never spat. Good as gold, he was, but. See, if anyone tells you there’s no such thing as a miracle, you know the truth of it.’
Mesmerized by teeth and the Irish brogue, Alice went to look at the rest of the house. It was spotless. She realized now why Marie and Nigel had never employed a housekeeper, because they already had one. A local woman came in a couple of mornings every week, but Tommy was the star turn. Or perhaps his teeth were . . .
‘When’s the cake coming?’ she shouted.
‘Tonight,’ came the reply from downstairs. ‘And the rest of the catering comes Saturday morning before ten. I think we ordered enough to feed the five thousand.’
‘What? Five loaves and two fishes?’
Alice sat on the end of Marie’s double bed. She could hear Tommy laughing downstairs. Saturday would be a long day, and she hoped nobody would notice that she was eating salad butties and no meat. ‘I am definitely expecting,’ she whispered to herself.
‘Crates of champagne, too,’ Tommy shouted.
In spite of discomfort in the digestive department, Alice giggled quietly. Tommy’s face had grown taller. With teeth, he was probably close to five feet and ten inches in height if measured at the front. And there was a twinkle in his eye. Alice the matchmaker grinned. She knew a woman who would be perfect for the Irishman. Mind, would Vera want to live in a shed . . . ? Then there was poor Urine to think about. ‘I’d better go home,’ she told herself. Yes, it was time to stop the billing and cooing of two dozen birds. With the mood she was in, Harry had better not get affectionate, either.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘You look like you’ve just walked out of the pages of a fashion magazine.’
‘Don’t talk tripe, Harry. I know what I look like, thanks. I’m pale. We do have mirrors in our house.’ She glanced round the room; for a man, he wasn’t too bad at cleaning, though the skirting boards needed a wipe down with a damp cloth. And while he was at it, he could have a go at the picture rail and that windowsill.
Harry, after watching her wandering gaze, invited her to sit. She was a fanatic when it came to housework, so this was going to be about washing and pigeons, of that he felt certain.
‘I’m not stopping; too much to do today.’ She perched on the edge of a large, over-stuffed armchair near the window. ‘Dan will be back soon – he’s gone to the park with Neil, who came home early when his job finished.’
‘Can Dan get that far?’
‘In a wheelchair, yes. Have you been working today?’
‘Yes. I was with Vera’s Tony. We finished early too.’ He stood as if intending to approach her.
‘Stay where you are. I’m here on business.’
Sighing heavily, he sat down again. He knew what was coming. ‘Bird business?’ He would behave himself, had to behave himself, because madam here took no prisoners, and her poor husband was going to die before his time. Even so, Harry’s need for Alice tormented him, though he fought it as hard as was humanly possible.
‘Bird business?’ he repeated. He could see that she, too, was fighting to maintain her composure, though her main problem was not desire for him. She was looking to clean up, as usual. She’d had her eyes all over his paintwork, and was now ready to start on the occupants of the back garden loft.
‘Bird business on my washing, yes, Harry. And Vera’s, and Nancy Sugden’s, and that big woman higher up who takes in laundry for a living. As if the bird dirt isn’t bad enough, they start twitting about at the crack of dawn. We sleep at the front of our house, as you very well know, but we can hear the buggers. Six o’clock, they kicked off today. And they all talk at once. My husband’s a sick man, and he needs his sleep. So do I. The birds are a pain, and you know it.’
Harry ran the fingers of one hand through his hair. She hated the pigeons, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled with them. ‘Alice, the old man left me the car, and when you think about it—’
‘And a load of bird poo, but he left that for all of us. Anyway, you’ve these fanciers knocking at your door to buy Blue Lady. Why don’t you have a bit of sense for a change and sell them on? What’s stopping you?’ She knew the answer, though she wanted to know whether he’d changed his mind.
‘I’d be betraying my dad’s best mate.’
She sighed – it was the same excuse as last time. ‘Let’s look at this another way, then. Are you a born pigeon fancier? And have you come from a long line of pigeon racers?’
‘No I’m not and no I haven’t.’
‘Do you think you know what you’re doing, then?’
Harry shrugged. ‘Do I hell as like. I’m picking it up as I go along, borrowing books from the library. I’m doing my bloody best, feeding them, keeping the loft as clean as possible.’
‘But is your best good enough for Blue Lady? I mean, she’s royalty, isn’t she? She’s the pigeon world’s version of our Olga.’
He decided yet again that Alice was a right little besom, and he loved the bones of her. She argued. She always stood her ground, even when she was wrong. She was a sight for sore eyes, daft, clever, alluring, perfect and married. She lit up the darkest corner of the grimmest room with no need for electricity.
‘I know somebody who knows somebody,’ she said.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘We can all say that. Everybody knows somebody, and every somebody knows another somebody.’
Alice shook her head in near-despair. ‘Listen, you. In the First World War Cher Ami got hundreds of starving soldiers fed. Red Cock saved a ship and its crew. They got medals for what they did. Pigeons helped turn the last war in our favour too. I mean, we couldn’t send a postman to France, could we?’
‘And you moan because heroes shit on your sheets.’
‘Shut up.’
He glued his lips together in a thin line. Alicia Marguerite Quigley was ‘on one’. In Liverpool ‘on one’ meant ranting, lecturing, having a tantrum, or going for some poor sod’s jugular. On this occasion, he was the poor sod. He waited.
‘This bloke I know lives up near St Anthony’s on Scotland Road. He knows another man who was in charge of a pigeon corps or whatever in the war. The birds carried messages in little tubes, sometimes even cameras. The cameras slowed them down and made them fly lower, so a lot got shot. They died for England.’
Harry nodded. She’d gone dramatic. Alice did a very good dramatic, and if Lady Macbeth could have had a Liverpool accent, this little bundle of mischief would have done Shakespeare proud. ‘Or Ophelia,’ he said.
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